Tires on gravel is the first thing I hear when I wake up as Trinity pulls into Meme's driveway. "Sorry I fell asleep.”
Trinity waves me off. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up later."
I manage a weak nod.
After waving goodbye, I pull my luggage towards the side door. Meme will probably be asleep since it’s well after midnight. I try to be quiet as I pull open the screen door and use my key to get inside. The bulb over the stove casts light throughout the small kitchen.
I’m setting down my purse on our kitchen table when I hear Meme walk down the hallway in her bedroom slippers. They always make a shuffling sound against the linoleum floor. That familiar sound alone makes the tight hold I have on my emotions slowly crack.
I’ve held everything together until this point: when I read my dad's words of remorse and love, when I stood on a mountaintop with memories of my mom, and when I said goodbye to the only guy I’ve ever cared about. But when Meme comes into view and her smile stretches cheek to cheek despite the late hour, I break into a thousand tiny pieces.
I drop whatever else I’m holding and just begin sobbing where I stand. The kind of sobbing that steals my breath and shakes my whole body from head to toe. The same kind of sobbing as when I said goodbye to Mom one last time in the hospital. I didn’t want her to see me cry. I waited until the machines stopped beeping and the nurses cleared the room, giving Dad and me one last moment before they took her away. I sobbed just like this, but I cried alone as Dad stood in the corner with his hand over his mouth in shock.
Meme's arms, both strong and fragile at the same time, wrap around me this time. The familiar smell of her vanilla lotion both comforts me and makes me cry more. I feel safe to be myself for the first time since that moment in the hospital—safe to feel angry, safe to feel devastated, safe to feel childish, safe to feel confused. Just safe. I soak her shoulder in tears as I continue to hold on for dear life to the one person who dropped everything to be there for me when I had no one else.
When I finally stop crying, we slide down into the kitchen chairs. She keeps my hands in hers as I tell her everything. She doesn't question my feelings or decisions. She doesn't say, "I told you so," when I mention the possibility of therapy.
And for the first time in the past few years, I feel something other than anger and sadness. Maybe hope?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Liam
“What’s in here? Tree trunks?” Rob complains good-naturedly as we carry boxes from Hugh’s van inside.
Without missing a beat, Hugh says, “Guitar picks. Thousands and thousands of guitar picks.”
“If only!” Rob’s tone turns infatuated. “I would spread them out all over the floor and make a guitar-pick snow angel.”
After setting the last box down, I shut the door behind me. “And you would be homeless since Lei would immediately evict you.”
Rob lies on the floor with his arms and legs out pretending to make a snow angel. “It would be worth it.”
“ You been using the puncher?” Hugh asks.
I stifle a laugh.
Rob suddenly sits up. “What puncher?”
Hugh looks at me. “The one I gave to Liam for you.”
I hold my hands up. “Lei hid it.”
Rob’s eyes narrow. “He’s so going to regret that.” He grabs his guitar and lies back down, most likely plotting his revenge, while strumming quietly. Lei better hide anything that could turn into a guitar pick.
Hugh sits down at his work table to check my violin’s sound post.
Sitting on the opposite side of him, I flip through the latest edition of Classical Music magazine. I look up to see his peering over his glasses at me. “What?”
He gestures to my violin. “It’s perfect. Especially since I checked it only a month ago. Do you have a performance soon or something?”
I casually look back down at the magazine. There’s an article on Andre Merrill, one of the youngest violin teachers at Juilliard. A violinist I’ve admired since he posted his first YouTube video mastering Niccolò Paganini ’s Caprices over ten years ago.
“Or something,” I say.
Rob stops strumming. “Or something what?”
I shrug. “Maybe some sort of audition.”
Rob laughs. “Is there suddenly a new ensemble at University because I’m pretty sure you’ve been in them all.”
I hold up the magazine. “Do you know Andre Merrill became a violin teacher at Juilliard when he was only twenty-five?”
Rob squints to see the picture from his spot on the floor. “Fascinating. You can add that article to the Andre Merrill shrine hidden somewhere in your room.”
“Maybe I should just see if he’ll be my teacher instead?”
Rob sits up. “What?”
Hugh freezes and looks at me.
“Well, shrines aren’t really my thing, so maybe applying to Juilliard would be a better way to show my devotion.”
Rob gently sets his guitar down before jumping up quickly to pull me into a hug. “That’s brilliant, mate!”
Hugh pats my shoulder, and then wipes at his eyes as he sits back down. “Well, your violin is ready. And so are you, son.”
I smile as I look at him. “Thanks to you.”
He returns my smile, and then looks back down as he takes a cloth to wipe a nonexistent spot off the gleaming wood of my violin. “Did you know your parents asked me to craft this violin especially for you?”
My breath catches. “What?” I knew they bought it from him, so it was obviously hand-crafted, but I had no idea they had it commissioned specifically for me. Maybe I just misunderstood when they said it had been made by Hugh.
Hugh nods. “I remember seeing Amelia walk by my shop several times within the same hour. Of course, I didn’t know who she was at the time. It reminded me of you, though.” He puts the cloth down. “Then she finally got the nerve to come inside and introduce herself as your hopefully soon-to-be foster parent. She said, and I quote, ‘I wanted to meet the violin god Liam won’t stop talking about.’”
Rob laughs as he picks up his guitar again.
“I never said that. Your memory must be going in your old age.”
Rob cuts in. “What did I say about making light of people’s illnesses?”
“Anyway, she wanted to go ahead and commission a piece just in case it all worked out since it was close to your birthday.”
I don’t doubt him since it reminds me of the two hundred and fifty squares of blue fabric she sewed together.
“The spruce I used had only been seasoned for around ten years as usual.” He holds up my violin and turns it around. “The maple, though, forty years.”
I drop my magazine. “For my violin?”
“I would have taken you in as my own if I was able. You think I wouldn’t use the best materials to build this?” He looks down at my violin. “Especially at the request of the kind of parents you’ve always deserved.”
I don’t know what to say. So, I walk around the table to hug him. Hugh isn’t the most physically affectionate bloke, but he asked for it this time.
“Let’s just say you did build guitars, I’d get forty-year-old maple, too, yeah?” Rob asks as he also throws an arm around Hugh.
“Alright, alright. Hands off the old man,” Hugh teases. “And yes, Rob, only the best maple for you, too.”
As we leave Hugh’s shop, Rob looks down at his phone. “Emily’s putting together a care package to mail to Avery’s new apartment and wants to know if you have any suggestions.”
I swallow and look away. “A toffee apple from the corner shop.”
Rob gives me a concerned glance before rapidly moving the fingers on the screen. “Won’t that melt?”
“Probably, but it’s more of a thought-that-counts type gesture.”
“She’s still not talking to you?”
I shake my head. “She keeps up with my Instagram, though.”
“That’s something,” Rob sa
ys.
“I’ll take it for now.” But I still have hope the future holds more for us.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Avery
"Avery!" Trinity shouts from the front of our apartment, our brand-new apartment—as in an apartment with no adults and only each other.
We found a place in between both our schools. Even though we have to travel some for class, it’s worth it to be able to live together.
All our boxes are unpacked. We’ve already played music so loud our neighbors banged on the adjoining wall. The smoke alarm has already blared to life when we put garlic bread in the oven and promptly forgot about it. Trinity nearly fell off one of our brand-new IKEA chairs while trying to shut the noise off. Then, it continued to chirp to the point we had to call her dad for advice.
We strung Christmas lights through the rafters on the ceiling of our back patio. We covered our beige apartment walls in photographs and the type of art we can afford. It looks completely lived in after only three weeks.
My back rests against the headboard as I edit photos on my laptop for a class project. My very first-class project that will be the teacher's first impression of my work.
"Pretty large box out here for you." Trinity shouts again. "From England."
In the process of scrambling off my bed as quickly as possible, my feet get wrapped up in the sheets, and I nearly fall before catching myself on the bedside table. I’m glad there was no one around to witness that. I manage to calmly walk into the living room.
A big square box sits on the coffee table with various labels and large lettering on it. I check out the name and smile: Emily Addison. We’ve continued to call and text even though I’ve stopped talking to Liam. After the first two weeks of being home, it was just too painful to keep being reminded of what I couldn’t have. Or what I could have but most likely ruined. Either way, it was just too much.
But Emily, and Rob by association, have become good friends. I don't know if they told Liam that we talk or what we talk about, but that’s their business. I jump up and down a little as I rip off the packing tape.
" Excited much ?" Trinity says next to me.
"I think getting mail from England is a pretty good reason to get excited," I say, “Especially if there happens to be pastries inside.”
When I open the box, the first thing I notice is fabric, not just fabric but a beautiful kilt made up of blue, purple, and white. As I pull it all the way out, a note falls out. Written in Emily's handwriting, it says, “A little bit of the UK for your new apartment. We miss you!”
I set the kilt aside to keep looking through the box. There’s a tin of gingerbread from the Lake District and a cheese danish from my favorite coffee shop. There are two new Brotherhood t-shirts with the exact same design, so I hand one over to Trinity. There’s also a caramel apple that I try not to think too much about.
"Okay, I totally understand the excitement over this box now!" She holds the t-shirt up to her chest.
I keep digging and pull out a framed photograph. It’s Rob, Emily, Liam, and me at Helvellyn Peak.
Trinity takes the frame out of my hand. "I'll keep this for now."
"I wasn't going to throw it away or anything," I argue.
She gives me an unconvinced look.
Once the box is empty, we sit at the table and share the gingerbread—not the cheese danish, though. I have the kilt wrapped around my body like a burrito.
“Did you ever call that therapist?” Trinity asks while inspecting a piece of gingerbread before popping it in her mouth.
Meme helped me find contact information for several grief counselors in my area. I chew for longer than necessary before answering her. “Not yet.”
She gives me a look. “Do I need to make an appointment for you?”
I tear off another piece of cheese danish. “I’m not stalling.”
“You’re totally stalling.”
“It’s a big deal, Trinity. I can’t just pick the first name on the list. I need to spend time Googling them in order to pick the right person.”
“Just trying to help.” She studies the gingerbread tin. “I feel like such a bad friend.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ve known how you feel about losing your mom and your relationship with your dad. I never thought to suggest professional help.”
I slip my hand out of my kilt burrito to touch her arm. “You’re not a bad friend. You’re the best friend, my best friend. It wouldn’t have mattered if you had said anything about therapy. I wouldn’t have been ready then.”
“Are you sure you’re ready now?”
I remove my hand. “I think so. I mean, yes. I’m ready.” I crumple up the danish wrapper. “I’m going to go research them right now and make an appointment.”
She smiles enthusiastically. “That’s the spirit. If you need any help, just let me know.”
I nod while securing the kilt around me as I shuffle to my room. After researching the third therapist, I’m ready to just pick someone. I close my eyes and blindly touch the list of names. Then, I call the number my finger lands on and make an appointment for the following week. The receptionist says she’ll email me an intake form to complete right away.
As I wait a few minutes to check my email, my fingers hover over the keyboard before giving in and checking Liam’s Instagram page. Just like ignoring his calls and texts, I know I’ll have to give this up, too. It’s difficult to see his social media posts knowing his life is going on without me. I’m too weak to avoid him altogether, though.
Liam’s latest post is teasing Rob about the amount of guitar picks he’s collected. He posted a black and white photo of a guitar pick left in the shower where a bar of soap would normally sit. The caption reads, “Time for an intervention.” Rob commented, “The shower has great acoustics. Sorry, not sorry.” I can feel my lips begin to rise, which makes me immediately frown. I have no business smiling over Liam. I promise myself to avoid his social media accounts from now on.
Instead of torturing myself anymore, I switch over to my email and open the intake form. After filling out the easy questions, I pause when it asks, “Please check primary reasons for seeking counseling.” There seems to be a million choices.
I thought only grief would apply, but as I read over each reason, I realize I have way more issues than I thought. Awesome. I end up going with grief, anger, family conflicts, relationship conflicts, and major life changes. Since answering that one question alone feels invasive, I have no idea how I’ll make it through an actual therapy session.
My phone ringing is a nice distraction until I see Dad’s name on the screen. The same as the last three times he’s called, I send him to voicemail. After his email, I can’t bear talking to him on the phone. Even though Dad said he wishes he’d shown up on Meme’s doorstep to get me, he’s still only calling. It makes me agree with Katherine’s comment about actions.
I return to the intake form. The last question is, “What do you hope to achieve from counseling?” Not hate my dad. Not think every person I care about will leave me. I leave it blank.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Liam
A bucket appears in front of me as I’m bent over with my hands on my knees. When I look up, one of the stage crew gives me a small nod but then moves on. His assumption isn't wrong. I try to fill my lungs with a few deep breaths of air.
We are not used to playing in amphitheaters. A crowd to us is a couple hundred people max —not five thousand.
The musical festival, which began that morning, is a three-day event. We’re on next, and I’ve never been so anxious in my life. I can feel the same nervous energy coming off everyone else, too. I jump up and down a little in an attempt to shake off my nerves, but that makes me feel even more ill.
Eric is twirling his sticks in between his fingers as usual, but I notice his hands shake slightly. When he accidentally drops a stick, we all look at him.
"Not a word," he warns. "Everyone needs to cal
m down."
We’ve practiced so much leading up to this show, and I know we’re ready. But I still want Avery. I want to see her face as I sing her song for the first time outside of practice. It’s one of our best songs to date and the last one on our set list.
When we’re given the cue, we walk on stage. Multi-colored spotlights shine on us and the crowd, who are crammed shoulder to shoulder despite the large outdoor space. It’s insanely loud with everyone screaming and yelling. I try to clear my head and just focus on the show.
"Hello, out there!" I yell into the microphone and hope I sound a lot more confident than I feel. "You've been hearing some brilliant music today, yeah?" I hate to admit I practiced this little speech out loud several times.
"We have Eric on drums, Rob on guitar, Lei on bass, and I'm Liam. We are Brotherhood , and we hope you enjoy the show!"
We start off with our most popular song, “Sixpenny Lane,” and the crowd cheers loudly. I have no doubt our regular fans are out there. The thought calms me a little since I know at least they like our music. If this show goes well, there’s a possibility things will take off for us. But I’m just as conflicted about that happening as I am about it not happening.
Whether it’s the massive crowd or the fact we know this is a big deal, we play on another level. When it’s time for Avery's song, I have a brief yet crazy thought to officially dedicate it to her. The song’s called “Please Stay,” but we all refer to it as Avery's song.
I know she’s all the way across the pond and won’t hear it, but I want to feel close to her if only for a few minutes. "We've got one more for you tonight. I wrote this song for Avery, the girl who got away."
I turn to see Rob’s intense gaze on me. I guess I don’t normally talk about our songs, especially not to thousands of people.
We play her song without missing a single note. Even I can hear the anguish in my voice. It’s heartbreaking yet full of hope, which is still how I feel.
Please Stay for Me (The Brotherhood Series) Page 13